


I Wanna Break Every Clock

by ellebow



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: College AU, M/M, Multi, TW: gay slurs, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebow/pseuds/ellebow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce joins the gymnastics team and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song “Inevitable” by Anberlin.
> 
> _I wanna break every clock_
> 
> _The hands of time could never move again_
> 
> _We could stay in this moment_
> 
> _For the rest of our lives_

“What’s that kid thinking, joining the gymnastics team?” murmurs Clint, leaning close to Natasha. Her hair, loose and wild and red around her shoulders, smells like cinnamon. “He’s liable to snap in half just doing the splits.”

Natasha’s lips quirk upward in a wry smile. “Appearances can be deceiving,” she says, doubtfully.

Both of their attention is directed toward the newcomer to the gym: a slight, gangly kid with unruly brown hair and huge square glasses that swallow half his narrow face. The kid has a full black duffel bag slung over his bony shoulder with surprising ease, considering his birdlike frame. He’s wearing a faded green t-shirt proclaiming, “NYU Science Dept.” and loose grey sweatpants. His feet are strangely bare.

Clint wipes his chalky hands on his shorts and saunters up to the doe-eyed boy. “Can I help you?” he drawls, leaning against one of the pillars supporting the high bar.

The kid bites his lip and fidgets with the strap of his duffel bag. “Um, hi. My name’s Bruce Banner. I was hoping to join the gymnastics team,” he says softly. “I need an athletics credit for this semester.”

Clint snorts and raises an incredulous eyebrow, aware of Natasha’s admonishing glare boring through his back. “And what makes you think we’d let you?”

Bruce looks startled, and then he clenches his jaw and stands up straighter. “I’m willing to try out if I have to,” he says firmly.

With a shrug, Clint gestures to the bars and the beam. “Sure. Give it a try. Might as well get it over with.” He throws a glance over his shoulder at Natasha, annoyed to find that she’s smiling encouragingly at the newcomer.

Unfazed by the clear doubt in Clint’s voice, Bruce drops his duffel bag and shucks off his outer layers of clothing. Clint swallows as his eyes trail across the boy’s narrow but surprisingly firm hips and lean calves, trailing down to big, callused feet. Bruce sets his glasses carefully on top of his bag.

Clad only in his leotard now, Bruce approaches the lower bar. Dusting his hands with chalk first, he hoists himself up onto the bar. He begins to swing up and over the bar with practiced ease, turning upside down and righting himself without a single quiver of his thin arms.

Clint’s eyes widen; Bruce is clearly at home on the bars. He spins several times on the lower bar, and then swings up with apelike grace onto the high bar. The bar barely shakes under his slight weight. He scissors his legs open and closed, twisting this way and that. Then, routine complete, Bruce increases his pace and releases the bar, landing with a satisfying smack on the blue mat and sticking his landing perfectly. His forehead gleams with a thin sheen of sweat, and his chest rises and falls as he pants.

Clint just gapes at him, trying to ignore a sudden flush of heat. Bruce sends him a shy, proud smile and then shifts his gaze to Natasha, who’s applauding and smiling.

“I—how . . . ?” Clint gives up and just shakes his head. “Good job,” he admits grudgingly.

Bruce shoots him a grin and gives a theatrical bow. “Well?” he asks, voice hopelessly eager. “Am I in?”

Clint exchanges a meaningful glance with Natasha. “Coach?” She gives an imperceptible nod. He turns back to the kid—Bruce. “You’re in,” he confirms, cracking a grin at the unrestrained joy in Bruce’s bright, sunny smile at the news.

For the rest of practice, Natasha takes over, guiding Bruce on the pommel horse and conditioning his arms to bear his admittedly light weight. Clint can’t keep his eyes off the two of them, forced to think of very unsexy things like his boss at the auto shop in a frilly pink tutu as he follows the curve of Natasha’s breasts pressed against Bruce’s back.

When practice ends, Clint is surprised to find that Bruce lives in the same residence hall. “I’ll walk you home, then,” he tells Bruce.

Bruce looks a little affronted. “I can take care of myself, you know. It’s not that far.”

Clint sighs melodramatically. “Jeez, I’m just trying to be a gentleman, Banner.”

Looking pleased in spite of himself at the casual use of his surname, Bruce falls into step beside Clint, pulling on a navy blue jacket.

“So, what’s your major?” Bruce asks. “I’m Bio, obviously,” he says, gesturing to his shirt.

“Art,” Clint says, and grins at the look of shocked disbelief on Bruce’s face. “Oh, c’mon, it’s not _that_ surprising, is it?”

“I just wouldn’t have pegged you for an artist, that’s all,” Bruce quickly explains.

Clint laughs. “I really like sculpture, but I’m fairly good at painting, too.” He turns to study Bruce’s face. “So, you wanna be a scientist, then?”

Bruce’s glasses are perched crookedly on the end of his long nose, and Clint has to resist the sudden urge to reach out and adjust them. “Yeah, hopefully a bioengineer or something similar,” he admits shyly.

Clint gives a low whistle. “Impressive, short stuff,” he says, ruffling Bruce’s hair.

Bruce winces and glares at Clint. “Don’t _call_ me that,” he snaps with surprising ferocity.

Blinking, Clint holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, dude, I was just teasing.”

A blush colors Bruce’s freckled cheeks. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I’ve just . . . got anger issues.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and looks Bruce up and down. “Anger issues? You don’t look like you’d hurt a fly.”

Bruce shrugs. “Appearances can be deceiving.” He looks up at Clint’s sudden laugh. “What?”

“Nothing, just a little _déjà vu_ ,” Clint reassures him.

 

Now that Bruce is an official member of the gymnastics team, Clint starts noticing him around campus more often. The kid seems to keep to himself most of the time, even walking around with his nose buried in a book and risking bumping into people. He drinks his coffee black, Clint notices, and spends a lot of time volunteering around campus. Clint is almost 90% sure that Bruce is just a step away from being a tree-hugging hippie, since he’s always going on about environmental issues and the legalization of marijuana and women’s rights.

One day, though, Clint is distracted by harsh, raised voices and the sound of something hard smacking into tender flesh, accompanied by a low moan of pain. He stops, alert and listening for the source of the sound.

“You like it rough, _fag_?” hisses a low, mean voice, and Clint stiffens. Another thud, and this time a harsh, pained intake of breath. Bruce. Clint would know that voice anywhere. He guesses that the sound is coming from behind the coffee shop that Bruce often frequents, and breaks into a run.

Sure enough, a trio of boys is standing over a bruised and bleeding Bruce. The leader is holding Bruce’s backpack, the one with the tribal pattern, and it’s ripped. Bruce’s schoolwork is strewn across the ground, some of it stepped on and smudged by cruel feet.

Seeing Bruce lying there in a defensive ball, unshed tears glimmering in his usually warm brown eyes, a hot flash of anger shoots through Clint and his vision goes red. “ _Hey!_ ” he snaps, harsh and loud and _furious_.

The bullies round on him, sneers on their smug little faces. Those sneers quickly disappear as he lunges at the leader, barreling into him and knocking him to the ground. He lets several punches fly until the leader passes out, and then turns on the rest of them. The cowards are already fleeing the scene, disappearing from sight before he can even get up off the ground.

Clint rushes to help Bruce, who is rubbing his bruised forehead with a self-deprecating smile that squeezes Clint’s heart. “You okay?” Clint asks him stupidly. Of course he isn’t okay.

But Bruce smiles wetly up at Clint. “My hero,” he mock-gushes, and then Clint’s arms are around him and he lets out a small “oh” of surprise.

“Those _cowardly fuckers,_ ” Clint rages, holding Bruce so tight that the other boy winces and he has to pull away. Clint studies Bruce’s black eye and scraped face, running a ginger thumb along his injured skin. “Why’d they attack you?”

Bruce’s face closes off and he won’t meet Clint’s eyes. “They’re just . . . bullies,” he offers lamely, hot shame coloring his cheeks.

“That’s a goddamn _lie_ and you know it,” Clint snaps furiously, misdirecting his anger at the bullies onto Bruce.

Bruce winces and Clint curses his tactlessness. “I . . . I’m . . . gay,” he whispers, fear and pain tightening his voice. “And they . . . don’t like it.”

He moves to curl into the fetal position again, but Clint stops him. “Shh, it’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and hugs a trembling Bruce again, more gently this time. He pointedly ignores Bruce’s sharp intake of breath and the soft sound of muffled tears as a cool wetness spreads across his shoulder.

 

The next day, Clint draws Natasha aside and tells her what happened. Her eyes narrow and her normally soft features tighten into a frightening mask of anger. “Those _fuckers_ ,” she hisses, looking out through her office window at Bruce practicing on the rings, covered in bandages. Her knuckles are white as she clutches the edge of her desk.

Clint offers a wry smile. “My sentiments exactly.”

“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” she asks frankly, well aware that Clint would never stand by and let his teammate—especially a teammate for whom he obviously has feelings—be bullied.

Clint bites his lip. “I was thinking . . . I could tell him I’m bisexual,” he admits hurriedly, scuffing his feet against the ground. “He might feel more comfortable, knowing he’s not alone.”

Natasha bites back a grin. “And then you’re going to make out with him, I presume? And afterwards have very hot, very gay sex with him?”

Clint flushes bright red—a rare occurrence. “Natasha!”

“What? I’m just being honest.”

“Honest my hot bisexual ass,” Clint mutters under his breath, and Natasha’s high, tinkling laughter follows him as he storms out of her office.

 

The opportunity to out himself to Bruce comes unexpectedly early that Saturday morning, when Bruce shows up at Clint’s art studio (well, the NYU student art studio, but Clint’s basically commandeered it for the day), clad in a long-sleeved gray henley and khaki shorts that show off his slim, muscled calves. He looks remarkably preppy, his outfit clashing with Clint’s paint-splattered coveralls over a white t-shirt.

“Hi,” Bruce offers quietly, his wide brown eyes taking in everything from Clint’s unfinished abstract painting to one of his sculptures on a pedestal and covered with a white sheet. “I just . . . thought I’d come see what you’re always so busy working on.”

Clint smiles, secretly warmed by Bruce’s interest in his work. He washes his hands and wipes them on his coveralls, then joins Bruce on the threadbare, multi-colored couch where he’s crashed many a time after an exhausting late-night work session.

Clint watches Bruce fiddle with the hem of his shirt, biting his lip in that infuriatingly attractive way. “I, uh,” he forces out gruffly, and then clears his throat. “I wanted to tell you something. To—” he’s suddenly distracted by Bruce, who’s licking his dry lips and looking up at him with that stupidly Bambi-like gaze, “—make you feel better about . . . about what happened.” Clint does his best to ignore the heated blush that’s creeping up his neck.

Bruce just cocks his head curiously.

“Um, I’m—I’m . . . bisexual,” Clint practically spits out, and then drops his head into his hands. “Ugh, God, why am I so terrible at these things?” he moans.

Bruce reaches out a hesitant hand and rests it gingerly on Clint’s shoulder. “You’re not terrible,” he says soothingly, his breath warm and much too close.

Clint looks up, and he’s almost nose to nose with Bruce. Their breath mingles, and Bruce’s eyes are stuttering shut.

With a frustrated groan— _Dammit Natasha why do always have to be right about everything—_ Clint lurches forward and claims Bruce’s mouth, bringing up one hand to clutch at Bruce’s shaggy hair.

To his infinite relief, Bruce responds with equal enthusiasm, letting his lips fall open under the relentless press of Clint’s tongue and moaning as the kiss deepens.

Then Clint is dragging Bruce to the floor, onto the paint-splattered newspaper, and his hands are roaming all over the smaller man’s thin but muscular body. He nips playfully at Bruce’s lips, and is rewarded by a gasp and a breathy moan.

Clint smiles against Bruce’s mouth and breaks away just long enough to whisper, laughing, “Mmm, scientists are so _hot_.”

Bruce snorts and begins pulling at Clint’s coveralls, looking a little confused as to how to get it off of him. Clint bats his long-fingered hands away and focuses on stripping off Bruce’s shirt first, then lies down to unbutton his coveralls with shaking hands and pull his t-shirt over his head.

Now half-naked, they fall back onto the newspaper and resume kissing with renewed ferocity, licking into each other’s mouths and grabbing impatiently at each other’s hair.

Clint’s hand palms Bruce’s erection through his shorts and Bruce shudders and bucks his hips. “ _Clint_ ,” he manages to moan, and then Clint is sliding his hands under Bruce’s ass and pulling down his shorts and underwear.

They both gasp when Clint finally takes Bruce into his hand, stroking slowly and carefully. Bruce gives a strangled grunt of protest at the pace, but then, without hesitation, Clint sinks his mouth onto Bruce’s cock and laughs around it as Bruce shudders and grabs desperately at Clint’s hair.

Clint takes a special delight in the noises his tongue can elicit from one Bruce Banner, a boy so innocent-looking and preppy you would never imagine he could moan like a porn star.

When Bruce finally gasps and comes, dripping onto the conveniently placed newspaper, Clint rolls over onto his back and begins giggling in a decidedly unmanly fashion, not that Clint would ever admit to it.

Blushing and uncertain, Bruce glares at him. “What?”

“It’s just—we couldn’t have chosen a better spot. Cleaning up will be no trouble at all.” Clint’s eyes shine as he leans over to press a kiss on Bruce’s forehead.

“Prick,” Bruce mutters, but he strokes Clint’s hair and kisses him more gently now, on the mouth.

 

Afterwards, Clint calls Natasha. “You were right. About Bruce. About . . . everything.”

Natasha’s laugh is low and breathy in his ear. “Told you so. Next time, you better invite me.”

Clint’s stomach goes tight and he’s suddenly hard again, and Natasha hangs up.


	2. Chapter 2

Apart from the fact that every night Clint sneaks over to the Honors dorm to fuck Bruce into the mattress, sometimes even bringing the doe-eyed scientist a coffee when he has to work late into the night at the lab, everything continues pretty much as normal. Bruce continues to hone his already impressive gymnastics skills, with Natasha guiding him surprisingly patiently every step of the way. Clint forces himself to stay away, hovering at the edge of the sweaty blue mats and watching the pair in his peripheral vision with flushed ears and shaky breath.

Every once in a while Natasha glances over at him and catches him staring—no, _leering_ —at her and Bruce. She just smirks in that knowing way she has, and takes particular care to slap Bruce loudly on the ass the next time he bends over to touch his toes. Bruce leaps away from her with a baffled, mock-hurt expression. Natasha bats her eyes innocently and licks her lips before turning to wink saucily at Clint 

Normally, he and Bruce try to keep their canoodling (as Natasha would call it) to a minimum at the gym, but one day as he and Clint are stripping off their leotards and changing back into their school clothes in the locker room Clint makes the mistake of glancing over at Bruce, who is stepping out of his leotard, bare-assed with one leg on the floor.

Heat rushes straight south and Clint moans, half resigned and half frustrated. Bruce barely has time to look up, startled, before Clint’s hands are in his hair and his tongue is in his mouth. He gives a low _mrrph_ of surprised protest, which soon morphs into a pleased hum of satisfaction as Clint mouths his neck.

Clint pins Bruce to the lockers, grabbing the brunet’s fantastic ass and lifting his toned legs so they fit snugly around his waist. He grunts in surprise when Bruce daringly nips at his bottom lip, pulling back to look down anxiously at him. Clint grins, reassuring, and reciprocates with a sharp twist of Bruce’s nipple. He’s rewarded with a gasp.

Clint is too fascinated by the way the beads of sweat on Bruce’s collarbone glisten in the dim fluorescent lighting to look up when the door opens, at least until Bruce stiffens in his arms.

_Shit. We forgot to lock it._

Blinking, his movements still slow and loose with arousal, Clint lets Bruce slide to the bench just below the lockers and turns.

Natasha stands with her arms crossed in the doorway with a smug look on her face, hair a fiery halo backlit by the brighter lights in the hallway outside. She’s still wearing her leotard, with baggy black sweatpants slung low on her hips. She smiles in an almost predatory way, all teeth.

Clint spares a moment to wish he’d caught the surprise that must have flickered across Natasha’s face, at least for a brief moment, before it had settled back into her perpetual expression of cool amusement.

“I’m impressed at your taste, Barton,” she drawls, and her low voice settles in Clint’s belly like warm molasses. Her eyes skim appreciatively over Bruce’s naked body, and her stance shifts just slightly. Bruce swallows and draws his knees to his chest protectively.

Clint’s smile is razor-sharp and bitter. “Wanna join, sweetheart?” he flings back at her sarcastically.

To his utter surprise, Natasha seems to consider it for a moment. “Mmm . . . My hands are all chalky . . .” Her voice trails off and she licks her lips again. She sighs and closes her eyes. “Oh, fuck it.”

 

Before Clint can register what’s happening, she’s crossed the room to him, snaked a chalky hand around his waist, and pulled him to her chest. Face to face, she stares at him solemnly for a tense moment before she leans in and licks the tender spot where his jaw meets his neck, right above his pulse point.

Clint hears his own gasp echoed by Bruce’s. He can see his lover go rigid out of the corner of his eye, but then Natasha is crushing his lips to hers and all thought is rendered impossible. He automatically reaches up to cup the back of her head, his hand meeting soft red curls instead of short, shaggy brown hair. Natasha smiles and deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth with more intensity than Clint knows what to do with.

Then Bruce’s hand is on Clint’s shoulder, pulling them apart. “What the _hell_ , Nat?” he spits with a glare.

Natasha just laughs. “Oh, don’t worry, baby. We’re not leaving you out.”

Bruce’s brows draw together in adorable confusion. Natasha rolls her eyes and claims Bruce’s mouth this time, clamping his head in her hands and pressing up against his naked chest.

Bruce’s eyes widen, undoubtedly thinking _BOOBIES!_ with a panic unusual for most people who come into contact with Natasha’s breasts. But then he notices the beginnings of an erection poking into her hip, and his confusion only deepens.

Clint growls low in his chest, “ _God_ , Natasha, you bitch.” He positions himself on Bruce’s other side, reaching to wrap his fingers around said erection. 

Bruce jerks and moans as Clint brings him closer to climax with every steady pull of his cock, while Natasha nips and licks at his mouth and neck.

When Bruce comes, not long after, Natasha’s laughter is triumphant.

Bruce shudders, face flushed and hair mussed. His mouth quirks into a wry smile. “I still prefer cock. Sorry, Nat.”

Natasha grins. “That’s perfectly fine with me, love.” She pats Bruce’s ass fondly and turns back to Clint. Her eyes slide down Clint’s body and focus on the bulge straining his sweatpants.

“Let me take care of that for you,” she breathes.

Clint just swallows and nods, and he gasps when Natasha reaches down with chalky hands to cup him through the moist fabric of his pants. “Just relax,” she mouths against his shoulder, palming him with increasing tempo. Clint responds with a strangled grunt.

Bruce watches, wide-eyed, and then reaches out, hesitant, and positions himself behind Clint. He bites his lip and presses himself against the curve of Clint’s ass. He licks the spot where Clint’s ear meets his head as he slots his cock—already hard again—into Clint’s crack. 

Clint trembles, and bites off a moan as Bruce begins rocking against him. Then Natasha’s lips are on his cock and Bruce is whispering filthily in his ear, and he comes. 

Natasha wipes her mouth on the back of her white-dusted hand and straightens, smirking. “Now it’s my turn.”

At Clint’s questioning look, she shucks off his pants with a businesslike twist of her wrist, and her own soon follow. She winks wickedly at Bruce as she slides onto Clint with complete poise. Clint draws a shaky breath and tries not to think about how many times he’s seen her casually snap a man’s neck between her iron-hard thighs. 

With a low moan, Natasha insinuates herself against Clint in slow, smooth waves. She rides his cock like a natural, rolling her hips and looking down at Clint with fire in her eyes. She looks half-wild, her sweat-soaked curls framing her face like a tangle of autumn leaves. Clint grasps her thighs, guiding her as she squeezes herself around his cock. 

Bruce’s strangely minty breath ghosts suddenly across Clint’s face, and his lips seal Clint’s in a hot, desperate kiss. Clint voices a groan that Natasha echoes, both of them breathing hard and fast as Natasha fucks herself on his cock.

When Clint comes, he lets out a strangled yell. Natasha laughs, bell-like, and quips, “I never took you for a screamer, Barton.” Then she slides off of Clint with practiced ease and slides back into her clothes like a snake molting, only in reverse. As she zips up her skin-tight black hoodie, she darts in to peck Bruce on the cheek.

Bruce rolls his eyes, still intent on probing Clint’s mouth with his tongue.

“Well, then, boys,” Natasha says, heading for the door, “I”ll leave you to it.”

Clint is too busy running his hands up and down Bruce’s back to answer.


End file.
